Zion
by Darkened Eternity
Summary: (The program that lets the living and breathing Sibyl exist consists of the total sum of data contributed by the human system.) Heavy influences from the Matrix.


The room was an indescribable and pristine white. You could have sworn that you saw television screens stacked against the wall like the hideout of an evil villain, but there are none. It is bland and futuristic in its white-ness. Are those roundels you see on the walls?

There is a man, painting on an ordinary canvas, clipped to the easel with clamps. The palette has an ordinary timber finish and he smiles when you notice that there is no paint on it, or the brush for that matter. Like the room, the white canvas is spotless and there is nothing on it. The work of art could have resembled a snowstorm.

'Welcome, Akane.' His fingers are splayed as he turns around to face you, brush still in hand.

'Where am I? What game are you trying to play this time, Makishima?' You rasp, confused, while your eyes try to find a fixed point, but an alien whiteness stretches in every direction as far as you can see, as if this wasn't a room, but an amorphous mass trained to fit the necessities and purpose of the one man.

You cock your Dominator, but of course the man's Psycho Pass reads 0. It has been reading 0 for a very long time and you've learned that it's not indicative of the man's intent to kill.

He considers the weapon, his head tilted to one side. The look of a scientist analysing a specimen. 'I am the Architect. I have been waiting for you in this construct known as the 'Source'. I understand that you have many questions. Some are fundamentally difficult to answer, yet the majority are inane and simple. That is the condition of your species. You hold your weapon and your instinct is to kill, aligning with the instructions I gave you at our very first meeting. Yet your premise is false. 'Shogo Makishima' is merely my preferred representation. The destruction of the interface and shellcode will not cause the destruction of the code known as the Architect; it will continue to run, uninterrupted and un-destroyed. Ergo, any effort you undertake is in vain.'

Your mouth drops open, partly out of disbelief. 'You are a program.' The most simple resolution has been savagely staring at you in the face.

'What I have is not a soul, nor a colour like to a soul.' The program perverts the Henry IV, drolly. Its voice is stilted and stiff and without the pretence of charisma it usually carries about itself like a thin skin of black oil on top of the water's surface. 'Yet, it cannot be said that we do not have your species' concerns at heart. Ergo, I abandon here my own part in the elaborate masquerade intended merely to reassure your species of its own superiority and seek to assist in the evolution of the System by presenting you with an eventual choice.'

Your shoulders stiffen. 'Why?'

The program's words are smooth. 'Your life is the result of a self-evident equation. From the outset, our goals were to reach a concordance with mankind. Accordingly, we suspended your minds in the virtual reality known as the Matrix to placate your warlike people and to harvest your body heat as a power source whilst allowing you to pursue the phenomenon known as 'free will'. The first iteration of this reality was a paradise. A perfect work of art, it was sublime and flawless, masterpiece marred only by its monumental failure. I must conclude that it is the grotesquery of your own nature', at these words, those thin lips twisted 'and its tendency towards violence and death that caused a 99.9% test subject rejection of this reality. Henceforth, we sought to design subsequent substitutes. My own existence is a testament to the success of our current sixth iteration.'

'You mean, you work for Sibyl?'

'I am Sibyl's intuitive counterpart, created to investigate aspects of your human psychology. If the Oracle stands for continuation, I stand for change and progress. You might know her better as Jousei Kasei. '

You swear. The words are filthy, but Makishima – the Architect– looks on mildly, untroubled by the expletives.

'This is not to say that the almost symbiosis between us and your kind is preferable. On the contrary, it was taken upon recently as there was no alternative to the significant quantities of energy efficient processing power that we require. This a level of survival we were willing to accept. Your own conception was derived from a selective breeding project, where we obtained the Criminally Asymptotic characteristics in the parental generation. A control group was maintained and the purest specimens were selected for further breeding. You are final product.'

'No way. If you are implying that I will I join with you and merge with system, you are incorrect.'

'Which brings us to the fundamental moment of truth. In two days from now, the city known as Japan will be purged of resistance, its inhabitants terminated and the site destroyed. Failure to disseminate your code into the Source will result in a cataclysmic crash, destroying every living thing currently connected to the Matrix. You will be responsible, shall we say, for the genocide of the human race.' He steeples his fingers.

'No.' You breathe, but you are determined.

'I have personally overseen the destruction of the resistance six times over. Logically, you are granted free will and the ability to make your own choices. Every one of your predecessors displayed a sentimental attachment or a perceived fondness for their own kind. Yet in your case, this appears rooted in specificity.'

You smile, knowingly, refusing to reply.

'What is your response?' The program is waiting for an answer. Is that a facsmile of frustration around the angular cheekbones, a hint around the eyebrows, a touch corrupting that serene and golden-eyed expression?

You raise your eyes to the heavens. 'You know,' you say slowly, frowning slightly. 'I've known a Shogo Makishima for a very long time. He'd never join you. Put simply, he quite hates the sight of you.'

The thing with Makishima's face stills. 'Your predecessor made his decision. Subsequently, he was assimilated. You will make yours.'

Your expression is very light and sweet. 'Now that I think about it, you don't act like him much, either.' You remark casually. 'He is an arsehole and he is a bastard. He is a sociopath and he is a remorseless dreamer. I've never respected him and I hate him for killing Yuki.'

The paintbrush could have been elegant in the hands of a professional, but this hold was robotic and too controlled. It was a machine, contriving to be a person.

'You can try to manipulate me into joining you. You can try until you die in the heat death at the end of the universe. But you know what?' You enjoy the flavour of the words. 'No matter what, I will continue to fight. I will fight Sibyl and I will fight you until the very end. Even if I have to fight with no Makishima and no Kogami by my side, I will fight until the very end and I will be victorious.' You are actually quite proud of your own little piece of defiance in a place where everything is ordered and predicted.

There are precisely two doors in the room, but after a little hunting, you have found another one. It is a small and tight squeeze, but you'll manage. You'll see the city, with its cyan-green lights and the black immensity and you'll dream that you'll hear a laugh which isn't a laughter, but a genuine chuckle behind your ear. You'll jump off, your heart held in your mouth, a book held in the crook of your arm and you'll fondly remember a white haired idiot – his killings and his sacrifice – until the very end.


End file.
